Story:Conquest/Corsail/Trials of the Silent Killer/Part 3
Part 3: The Outcast Being located so close to the Judge stronghold of Castle Pandaemonium, the Mad Ol' Mage pub was full not only of the usual rubble of drunkards, but of many noblemen from the castle itself simply looking for a break. And to those who ran the pub, those were almost worse than the rest of the drunks. Far more arrogant, loud-mouthed, and often paying small fortunes for dozens of rounds, or simply sobbing in a corner at how awful they were treated at work because their boss called them a mean name. Of course, there were the exceptions. There were the noblemen who were looking for some rest after a hard day's work and retained their respect for others and remained pleasant. One woman fit this description. She was working for Judge Alexander of Kjdoriah, and was just out for a drink after a day of training, fully aware of the sort of people she'd run into this late at night. Sitting around the bar and ignoring everyone else was her ideal way of spending the evening. And as she was aware of the kinds of people she would meet, she was completely unsurprised when a drunk man approached her and swung a chair around to sit next to her. "Oi, love," the man beamed loudly with breath stinking of beer. His eyes were not fixated on anything, but he appeared to examine her with a sense of curiosity. His accent was extremely thick. "Wassat armor you got on there? You frum the castle, love?" "Yes," she responded. She was not visibly irritated, nor did she pay him much attention, knowing that the best chance she had of men like this ignoring her was to pay them no mind. "Ahh," he said, "who'd you work for, 'ey? You with that Alexander bloke?" "Yes," she responded. She was so tired and had drunk so much that she began to worry after she answered his question if she may accidentally slip into giving away classified information. "Oh, 'im?" the man said. "'E's a right tossa', 'ey?" He was clearly making small talk. The woman didn't respond to him. "So, 'ow'd you end up 'ere then, 'ey?" "I am tired," she responded. She wasn't lying, but she was sure that this man, though impolite, was unintelligent enough that he was likely harmless. "I simply went for a drink after a long day." "Oh, I bet," the man said, "I've been working me arse off all day fer me boss." "Me too," she said. She didn't inquire further, as she was completely uninterested in what his job was, or who he was. Her expectation was that he was thinking the same, and was about to ask her more questions or simply get fed up and try to chat up another girl. "Oi, speakin' of which," he said, "I 'ad a letta fer the castle. Supposed to give it to 'em. Can you give it for me?" For the first time, the woman now looked him in the eye. She retained her bored and uninterested look. Whatever was in this letter did not interest her in the slightest, nor did its sender. "Sure," she said. "I'll pass it on." She didn't stop to think about anything. He held a letter out to her, and she took it, then filed it away in a pocket underneath her leg armor, before looking away and back at the table. With any luck, this man would go away now. "Ah, thanks, love," he said, before wandering off, completely unnoticed by everyone. He took his place on a table out in the corner of the pub, with very few people, and continued to groan and drink loudly, putting anyone off from sitting near him. But eventually, one person did join him. A person in green armor. One who most glared at before returning to their own drinks, believing his armor to some costume left over from a fancy dress party. And not believing it to be the armor of the real Corsail. ---- "Did you deliver the letter?" Corsail asked Thorne. "Yes," Thorne responded. He was relieved to be able to drop the thick accent and the drunken act. "She thought nothing of it. Her face gave me the impression she really wasn't concerned with how authentic it was or not at the time. And she may have no idea that it contains a false alarm addressed to Alexander of Kjdoriah." "This is good," Corsail said nodding. "We have mere hours before they act. We shall not sleep, for we may miss our opportunity if we do." "I agree," Thorne said. "But Judge Alexander himself will not be drawn out. Our real target will be. Judges such as this rarely themselves leave their castle unless they had already planned to, and certainly not for an investigation that will most likely be called in response to the letter we wrote. They will send Abettor Ameer Aldairi." "Yes," Corsail said in agreement. "He will have an escort with him. We will cripple his movement before we take care of them. We must move quickly." Thorne nodded in response. By this point, the two had talked for so long and got to know one another so well that they could almost tell what the other was thinking. Their thought process was now extremely alike, and any discussion on their plan of action was mostly just to confirm with one another. Thorne was no longer as jumpy and reactionary as when he had started out. It was time instead to discuss the target. "I never worked with Ameer Aldairi", Thorne said, "nor did my family before they passed away. I cannot speak as to who he is as a person." "Ameer Aldairi is corrupt," Corsail said simply. "In the Brotherhood of Judges, the most corrupting influence can be an Abettor whispering in the ear of a Judge. Judges themselves already have all the power and fortune they could ask for, having already made it to the top." "But an Abettor is in a position in which he or she can pass most of the laws and can carry out whatever favors for those outside the Brotherhood when they do most of their dirty work," Thorne interjected. "Right," Corsail said. "Ameer is such a person who has abused his position on several occasions to sell information and carry out unfinished jobs to the detriment of the Brotherhood but to the benefit of those who can pay to damage it. He can give an appearance of training a Judge without truly preparing them for an ambush in the hands of assassins who are paid for by him. He has many tools at his disposal." "These men are despicable," Thorne said as he spat. "They do not represent the values of the Brotherhood at all." "True," Corsail said, "but also true of the conmen priests we killed." Thorne sighed. "I realise that now," he said. "I was foolish." "Yes you were," Corsail responded bluntly. But Thorne by this point was used to it. "I have realised another thing," Thorne said, hoping to change the subject. "There is one thing in common with all of these people." "What is that?" Corsail asked. "They all have one common aim in mind," Thorne said. "Money." "It grants them power," Corsail responded in agreement. "It cannot just buy material wealth, but it can buy favors. It is desirable for so many reasons." "And that is why you do not pursue it," Thorne said, sounding almost proud of himself. "You do not pursue money and fortune because it could corrupt you to act against common good and only for personal gain. You have witnessed this first hand." If Thorne could see Corsail's face, he would have noticed a smile form. "You are mostly correct," Corsail said more softly than usual. "But there is another thing they all share in common. I have worked for them all in the past." Thorne looked curiously at his mentor, but said nothing and allowed him to continue. "Each of them have at one point exploited my skills for their gain," he continued. "I accept any job and I accept the highest bidder. But this policy of mine has led me to commit acts I regret committing. This is why, for all the time I have worked with you, I have not been accepting contracts nor looking for work. I have been attempting also to make amends. Not for my own good, but for those who I have hurt." "It was not your fault for doing your job," Thorne said consolingly. "You did the only thing you could do as an assassin. Your mission. You cannot take 'good' and 'evil' into account. It was you who told me that." "Yes," Corsail continued. While neither of them had truly drank anything, the atmosphere of the pub and the rabble of those around them meant that Corsail could easily open up about his life. "But I also cannot make excuses. I cannot excuse my actions by telling myself I did the right thing, or that I had no control over them. The lives I took were taken by me, because it is the only thing I can do. That I must live with." "Because the second you do not follow through," Thorne said, attempting to continue from Corsail's trail of thought, "you lose your career." "For you and for other asssasins, maybe," Corsail continued with a sigh, "but not for me." Thorne looked at him puzzled, as he continued. "My armor and my identity give me a unique anonymity that many assassins do not have. The legends surrounding me allow me to get away with many actions and still be trusted by an employer, for they know that I am efficient, and know nothing of my true background. They do not know if the Corsail they are employing is me, or if it is a previous one." "Previous one?" Thorne inquired. The two were confident that no one was spying on them. If anyone came to the pubs to spy, it would be to learn more about the Brotherhood, not them. "Yes," Corsail said, realising that he now had to explain himself. "'Corsail' is merely an identity associated with this ancient armor. It is passed down from one to the next. Anyone knows that such armor for an assassin is not usually practical, for it is heavy and noisy for such infiltrations and does not allow one to wear a disguise over it. It does not shield my body. It shields my identity." "I see," Thorne said. "So when the legends talk about assassinations performed by you hundreds of years ago, they do not refer to you, the current Corsail. They refer to a previous one." "Yes," Corsail responded. "The legends say almost everything they can about Corsail, and everything is true and false at the same time. But the current Corsail may have none of those values, or all of them. In truth, the greatest weapon Corsail has is deceit. No one believes he exists, and it matters little how trained they are, anyone who has to fight him is struck by fear." "I can say with great confidence," Thorne said, "that you are as great as the legends say. It has been an honor being trained by you." "Hah," Corsail interjected. "I am nothing like the legends. I am not the ruthless and uncaring killer that they say I am, nor am I the glorious hero that the others say I am. I am a run-of-the-mill assassin whose armor grants me a unique identity. Nothing more." Thorne did not know what to say in response. His words certainly explained most of the legends to him, but he was now morbidly curious about many things. Who had begun the Corsail legend? For what gain? Truly what was it that his mentor wanted? What was his mentor fighting for? But he stayed silent. Thorne had learned at this point not to ask questions, as most of them, Corsail would want him to figure out on his own. In fact, what was his true name? What was he truly like under the mask? Perhaps no different from him. Thorne, when he had begun, was a fair looking and physically healthy man, though he was sure that was no longer quite the case. And indeed, his face was now scarred, he now wore a beard and he was often covered in bruises and dust from battle. Maybe Corsail was the same sort of ordinary underneath, perhaps with even fewer cuts and wounds, if the armor protected him. "We must leave soon," Corsail said. "We shall prepare to ambush Aldairi's men." "Right," Thorne said. ---- Other than Ameer Aldairi himself, none of the escort crew had even eaten before they were rushed out of the castle gates. He was a pale skinned man with a large build and stood taller than most of his men and women fighters with him. He was another one of those who kept fighters with him to make him look good, and not to actually protect him. Unlike the others Corsail and Thorne had killed so far, Ameer Aldairi did so for a completely different reason. He wasn't trying to boost his own ego, he was trying to appear authentic. To appear as a strongman who looked even tougher than those around him, and to appear to be a respectable figure of authority. It was clear to anyone who had seen many more soldiers that every scar he had collected was self-inflicted, that his build was beefed up by the thickness of his armor, that he was uncomfortable walking as it weighed heavily on him, and that he his straight face was just desperately waiting to loosen up. His armor was thicker than most that even the Judges wore, though his face was not masked. It would be very difficult to strike him from a distance without him escaping. That is why Corsail and Thorne waited until he passed through the nearby town, which he did. It was extremely easy for an assassin who knew what they were doing to blend in with a crowd. And at every stop, they lured out more of the escort and took them out behind alleyways, until there were only three left. At that point, Thorne jumped out with his blades and held them towards Ameer. The entire crowd fled immediately, while Ameer smiled gently, and began to chuckle, while reaching for his own. His escorting men drew their own swords, but Corsail tackled one to the ground and kicked the other. They turned their attention quickly towards Corsail. "Someone placed a price on my head?" Ameer asked, retaining the smug look on his face. "I was aware that the Brotherhood had enemies, but me? And after we worked so well together." "You can drop the act as of now," Corsail responded. "I am here to kill you. As is he." Corsail nodded towards Thorne, prompting only laughter. A fight ensued. Corsail took the escorting soldiers, while Thorne fought the Abettor. As thick and heavy as his armor was, Ameer moved very slowly. This was exactly what Thorne aimed to exploit. Speed and technique won battles, not physical strength. As Ameer hacked away at Thorne, Thorne's dual blades outmanoeuvred him. He could easily smash Thorne's weapons from his hands, but not before Thorne swung the other arm around and stabbed at his side. Very shortly after the fight had begun, Ameer's smug look changed to a concerned and increasingly irritated one. He moved more aggressively, swiping away at thin air with his sword trying to hit Thorne, but missing. Thorne tried to stab him, but he could not get a blade past Ameer's shield, and those he did could not hit hard enough to break through the armor. For a good while, neither managed to hit the other. Until Thorne faked out his movements. He gave the appearance of aiming for Ameer's stomach, before quickly pulling his blade around and stabbing him in the forehead instead. He pierced Ameer's skull, and pulled the sword away, kicked Ameer to the ground. He looked at the corpse of the Abettor below him for a while, before Corsail arrived next to him. "There is no bounty to collect on him," Corsail said, "so we need not remove the head. Leave the corpses. The town can decide what to do with them." Thorne nodded. He was surprised with how smoothly and how simply this assassination had gone. "Perhaps we can leave a note?" Thorne said. "We forged documents telling the Judges that territory was in danger and help needed to be sent. They are sure to investigate." "Let them work that out for themselves," Corsail responded. "Within a week, they will have forgotten about the forged distress call." ---- Out camping once again, Thorne and Corsail prepared for a long sleep, having been deprived of the privilege for two days now. Neither were visibly exhausted, though both craved a rest. Just before that rest, though, Thorne had to make notes in his journal in the tent. Corsail inquired. "Why do you keep a journal?" he asked. Thorne looked up, almost confused himself. "I suppose I do not need to," he said. He tossed it to one side, then got ready to sleep. This time, it was Corsail who was making conversation. "How did you feel today?" Corsail asked, curiously. "We have killed priests and merchants, but this was the first time we killed one of the Brotherhood." "It felt no different," Thorne said, "only strange that we needed not collect evidence to claim a bounty." "I see," Corsail said. But he was now finished talking. Thorne decided to take the opportunity to ask Corsail some more questions. "I still do not know your motive," Thorne said. "I know that you are killing some of your old clients, but I do not know why you fought for them in the first place. Or what they have done that has led you to make your decision." Corsail did not respond. In the past, Thorne would've grown more frustrated. But instead, he remained calm, and spoke further. "I believe you are ignoring the advice you gave me," Thorne said. "Because it does not apply to you. Because you have the privilege of your masked identity, you are above the rules that other assassins are bound to. You are exercising judgement over who should and should not live, despite other assassins lacking this ability." "Are you judging me?" Corsail asked. The two of them both remained calm. "A little, yes," Thorne responded. "You said to me that you were no different from anyone else. I do not think you believe this to be true. You said that you should not make excuses for yourself. I think you are doing just that." "Then perhaps you are demonstrating my point," Corsail responded, "that I am no different from anyone else, and I do not deserve much more respect." Thorne was visibly puzzled, and Corsail continued. "But you are not completely correct. My motive is not complex." "Then I would like to know what it is," Thorne said. He was struggling to hide the frustration in his tone. "You become extremely difficult with me, for little reason. You wish me to work everything out on my own. You even left me to kill our main target on my own. Knowing full well I do not have the experience you have, that I do not have the judgement, nor the ability that you have." "Is that so?" Corsail asked. "You killed Ameer, yes? You doubt yourself too much." Thorne remained silent, but he was still shaking. He was visibly frustrated, and wanted answers immediately. "The thing is," Corsail said, "there are many people in this world. Some of them good, and some of them bad. Some of them seeking to benefit everyone, others to benefit only themselves. Everyone is aware that it is a troubled world. They simply disagree on how to fix it. Or maybe they only agree to fix it on condition that they reap the benefits." Thorne knew that every time Corsail spoke like this, it meant he was going to finish with an answer. He remained calm and continued to listen. "It is not our job as assassins," Corsail continued, "to judge which is the way to fix it, only to judge how we can complete our mission. But when this world is full of so many people, with so many different agendas, especially in this time when we seem dangerously close to war, there are those who the powers that be want dead. That is why assassins exist. Those assassins, like yourself, are sold tales of glory, tales of fortune, and tales of heroism, and then given contracts in which they are not likely to succeed. But once they claim their first kill, and they see the reality that they are far from heroic, once they live with the conscience of which every life they have taken and every decision they have made comes back to haunt them, they regret it. But it is too late, for they will be nothing more than a killer. They can never have a real life again." Corsail looked away from Thorne, and towards his sheathed weapons next to him. "Many of our clients think of these assassins the same way you once thought of your weapons," Corsail said. "As disposable tools." "I have changed since then," Thorne said. "I realise that when keeping a weapon close, when truly understanding its value, that it can save my life as much as it can take others. That it can be a truly powerful tool." "Indeed," Corsail responded. "It is a shame that our clients do not see things that way. They do not see how valuable a human life can truly be if it is only treated with such value." "I see," Thorne said beginning to understand, "you feel like assassins are mistreated." "I do," Corsail said. "Assassins become nothing more than a tool. They are doomed to a life in which they become responsible for making life worse, after being told how heroic they can become. They are doomed to their fate from the moment they take a life. I, and now you, we have already become doomed to it. But if we can be the tools of the powers that be, if we can do jobs so others do not have to, then we are saving many others from also being doomed to this lifestyle. If we take the contract of the highest bidder, then some poor soul thinking of the life of an assassin as his way out does not have to." Thorne pondered for a few moments, very confused at first, and trying to make sense of it all. "There will always be a need for assassins," Thorne said, "and your aim is to alleviate some of that thirst for more bloodshed by participating in it yourself?" "It is like you said," Corsail responded, "I am unique with my masked identity. I can kill for the Brotherhood and for the Church and they will be fighting over who can be the first to acquire my services, not over who can train and build up the biggest assassins of their own. I can do nothing in this life but kill, and so I will continue to do so, if that means that someone else does not have to. So someone else does not have to throw their life away so foolishly." Thorne slowly nodded, beginning to understand. He lay back, prepared to sleep. "Any profession an assassin can have must involve murder," Corsail said, "there is no way to escape the role as a tool used for killing others. All we can do is embrace it, and accept it, so that others do not have to. But the reason why I killed those who I did with you is because they once hired me with express purpose of using me to hasten the beginnings of a conflict. One that may look inevitable, but should nonetheless be avoided. We do not need more people killed." "I understand," Thorne responded, as he closed his eyes to sleep. "Thank you. I wish I could hear your words before I had bought into the lies that the life of an assassin was glamorous." Thorne began to sleep, though Corsail checked outside the tent first. He saw that there was no way they were in danger here, and then headed back inside. Before he slept, he picked up Thorne's tossed aside journal. He read through the recent pages, and under his mask, began to grin slightly, with a sense of pride in his student. He then went to sleep himself, making sure as always to keep his weapons close to his side.